


puppeteer

by rexflame



Category: Future Card Buddyfight
Genre: M/M, oops this is really bad wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexflame/pseuds/rexflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he is only a puppet in a twisted play, dancing with movements that are not his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	puppeteer

**Author's Note:**

> woo! okay, i wrote this fic about 2 months ago per request on tumblr; the request was "could you write about kyoya and tasuku" and i went way overboard. oops. i didn't edit this so

He is a puppeteer. 

He likes to control the strings from behind the scenes, manipulating everyone, even those who believe they are manipulating him. A smile, some charm, an offer to help (and maybe some money) and he’s found he can win over nearly anyone.

Tasuku Ryuuenji was not a challenge. 

There was bitterness in his heart that let him be swayed. It was hardly a challenge to fix his strings to the blue-haired cop, just a charming smile and a promise to help him get revenge against those who wronged him. In the back of his mind, he supposes this is what bitterness does, and he vows to keep such feelings from his heart. The puppet master cannot be manipulated, after all. 

And then it’s a simple dance. 

It’s fun, really, to twist the blue-haired boy to his whims. Every action is /his/, every bit of personality, to play a role in his show. 

"Toccata and Fugue in D Minor."

"What?" his puppet says, tilting his head curiously. 

"Oh, I was merely saying what I was playing. It’s by Bach. Do you like Bach?"

He gets a shrug in reply. 

"I don’t really have much of an opinion on Bach," is said with a polite smile, and he can’t help but smile back with a sickeningly false smile, dripping in poison. 

"Sit with me."

The bluenette slides onto the piano bench.

"Do you play?"

"Piano."

"It’s not too different," the white haired boy replies, gesturing to the keys. 

"Try it."

The movements from the ex-cop are tentative and slow, but eventually his fingers settle on the keys. He begins to play, slow and somewhat stumbling. He’s absorbed in playing and he doesn’t notice when the person sharing the bench moves a little closer and their thighs brush or when a sly hand brushes against his hip. 

When he stops, the last note hangs in the air for a moment, before the puppeteer raises his hands and applauds, an audience of one. And now he’s aware of the proximity of them, but he tells himself that there’s no problem. One of his hands is pinned to the piano bench and a hand brushes under his chin, tilting his head up. There are lips on his then, warmth pressing against him, and he does not have the will to fight it. 

He is a puppet, after all, and he only dances to his master’s wishes.


End file.
